


Conquisitus

by Phoenixinthehouseofthemoon



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assassination Attempt(s), BAMF Greg Lestrade, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, Gen, Greg is a bit not good, Greg’s tragic backstory, Homicide wasn’t always Greg’s division, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Thriller, Undercover, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-12-05
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:21:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21574408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixinthehouseofthemoon/pseuds/Phoenixinthehouseofthemoon
Summary: Greg Lestrade can’t believe his luck. He has been with Mycroft for three blissful months and is now on the verge of moving in him. He’s dreaming of long, lazy Sundays and gentle half-awake kisses at midnight for the rest of his days.Greg isn’t a man without his fair share of secrets, though, and those shadows are about to come knocking.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade
Comments: 24
Kudos: 43





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much to the Paia_Loves_Pie for encouraging me to post this! I couldn’t have done it without her!
> 
> “they say the loveliest angels  
> make the cruelest demons  
> and my darling,  
> you were so kind and beautiful  
> before they dragged you to hell”  
> -your fall was not an accident. you were chosen for the damned. - c.k (widowbitesandhearingaids-blog.tumblr.com)

The yellow light of a street lamp sparkles in a puddle of rain and piss, like tiny shards of diamond. The smell of smoke and oil filters up from the cobblestone, mixing with the leftover acidic scent of city rain. There is blood growing tacky where it’s caught in his cuticles, it’s always hell to scrub out. His knuckles sting where two of them have split in wide, ragged gashes and the taste of bitter copper coats his teeth; his blood, the only salvation he’ll ever know.

He stares at the man at the end of the alley. Posh, gorgeous fabrics of a suit he remembers rubbing against his naked skin, catch the streetlight, trapping it. Auburn hair, bright as a bonfire in mid-autumn, that slides like raw silk between his fingers. Cold, carefully controlled eyes stare back at him, as expressive as chilled marble. That hurts more than anything, shoves a blade in his chest and twists; he knows pain, intimate and familiar as an old lover, but never quite as sharp as this. 

This is the kind of pain that kills, not immediately but as inevitably as time itself; death by a thousand cuts, and, god, but does some part of him  _ crave _ that. If nothing else, pain makes this, them, real, hones his memories like a knife that will surely shove into his belly in the quiet, lonely hours to come. Years of torture lie ahead of him, and all he can think is “thank god”.

Part of him, the smiling, amiable mask he perfected years ago, screams in the back of his mind. It howls and rends at the bars of its cage, begging to be let out, for him to do something, anything to stop this. It demands he prevent the loss of warm, lazy Sunday afternoons, legs tangling together, sheets an unsalvageable mess at the end of the bed. It will give anything,  _ anything _ , will sell its soul to whatever god or demon would take it, to have one more night cuddling close on the couch, tv not but white noise, as lips brush gently against his, long-fingered hands sliding through his silvered hair. 

The mask isn’t in charge here, it has no say in this world, his world. A world made of warm leather against sweat slick skin, the taste of nicotine like nirvana on his tongue, blood dripping from his hands, staining his vest, and ink set deep into his skin, into his soul, colours he’ll die wearing. A fresh drop of blood from the gash on his lip, coats his tongue and Adderall sings through his veins like bottled lightning. The mask, kind and gentle and caring as it is, wouldn’t last a single day, so it has no say, not here, not now, not ever again.

Gregory Lestrade, Detective Inspector of NSY, Mycroft’s lover of three months, and gentleman has no say here. Greg “Ripper” Jones, enforcer to one of the hardest firms London has ever seen, stares back at the “Iceman” and smirks with bloody teeth on display. 

“So, now you know,” he says, like a challenge, like a gauntlet thrown into the ring.


	2. In All My Dreams I Drown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we get any further into this, I would like to say that all depictions of PTSD in this fic are based upon my own experiences living with PTSD-C, and are not meant to be representative of all cases of PTSD.
> 
> TW: Panic attacks, flashbacks, nightmares relating to trauma, body image issues, alluded to violence against a main character, issues with lack of appetite. Please see end notes for more about this.
> 
> Chapter title taken from the wonderful song: “In All My Dreams I Drown” from the musical “The Devil’s Carnival” (written and directed by the same people who did “Repo! The Genetic Opera”; absolutely fantastic, give it a watch!)

...One Week Earlier...

_ Warm blood, slick on his hands. The slap of cold autumn wind on raw knuckles. White mist springing from his mouth with every heaving breath. Body on the concrete, male, barely even twenty, red, red, red blood seeping into dark brown hair. Dead, dead, dead. _

Greg sits straight up in bed, desperately trying to pull air into his aching lungs. He looks around, wildly. Where am I? Who else is here? What’s my name today? His brain scrambles to catalogue the room, to put together the pieces. Small room, three doors, one window, white walls, gray sheets, gray duvet, suit trousers and jacket laid over a chair, The Clash album mounted on the wall opposite the bed. His bedroom, home, safe for now.

He turns his attention back to his breathing, forcing himself to take deep, slow breaths, through his nose, even though it feels like sucking air through a straw. He reaches up, grips the Medal of Saint Michael hanging around his throat. Home, safe, calm down. He holds his next breath for a count of two and exhales for a count of four. Breathe in four, hold two, breathe out four. Breathe in four, hold two, breathe out four.

Slowly his breath regulates itself and he lets out a great shuddering sigh. God, he hasn’t had one like that in a while. It’s only now he can feel his clothes plastered against him, soaked with sweat. He shivers, the radiator in his flat never quite warm enough to chase away the worst of the December chill. The sheets are in a similar state to his clothes and will have to be thrown in the wash before he leaves for work. Greg scrubs a hand through his sweat drenched hair and mentally adds “shower” to the growing list of things he needs to do before he leaves. Fantastic.

Though part of him wants nothing more than to flop on to whatever dry part of bed he can find, pull up the duvet and go back to sleep, there’s no point to it. He’s had enough of these nightmares - flashbacks, his mind interjects - to know that he won’t be getting any more sleep tonight. He looks over at the alarm clock on his bedside table, 3:10 stares back at him. He can either spend the next three hours, tossing and turning and trying his best to prove himself wrong, until his alarm goes off, or he can get up and make himself useful.

Greg runs his hand through his hair one more time, before flipping back the covers and turning to get out of bed. He hisses and jumps as his feet touch the icy surface of the hardwood floor of his flat. Have to get that radiator fixed,always feels like I left a window open. He stands from the bed and quickly begins stripping off the damp sheets and pillowcases, before going to put them in the combination washer/dryer that came with the flat. 

Coming back into the bedroom, after turning up the radiator and smacking it with an rusted wrench for good measure, he unhooks his phone from the charging cable on his bedside table. Might as well see if any of my cases have gone to hell in a handbasket while I was sleeping. The screen lights up with a familiar picture, a selfie of he and Mycroft, taken three weeks ago during a surprise birthday trip to the BVI. Their faces are pressing cheek to cheek, Mycroft’s red hair, wild from wind and sea air, shining in the warm sunlight. Mycroft gives the camera an exasperated if amused smile, while Greg is grinning for all he’s worth and throwing in a cheeky wink.

Warmth and comfort wrap around him like a hug. He and Mycroft have been together for three months now. Their clandestine warehouse meetings to discuss Sherlock had turned into dinners, which turned into outings to the orchestra or the theater, which turned into glorious nights spent in between Mycroft’s silky Egyptian sheets. They fell into dating, into loving each other, as instinctively as breathing. Now, with Greg’s lease coming up in two months, there have been tentative discussions about whether renewing it would be necessary at all.

Mycroft is away in Scotland for the week, stopping wars, or solving global warming, or walking the Queen’s corgis, or whatever else a “minor” politician did. The urge to call Myc is strong. Just to hear his voice, even for a minute. Greg knows that just a minute talking to Mycroft would erase the lingering anxiety that’s taken up residence between his shoulder blades, cold and hard, and creeping like claws up his back. He pushes the thought from his head. It’s three in the morning and there’s no reason to wake Myc. I’m not a bloody teenager who needs his boyfriend to chase away a stupid nightmare - flashback.

Greg hesitates before putting the phone back down on the bedside table. He can call Myc at seven, not to talk about the nightmare, just to say good morning and listen to his lover’s still slightly sleepy voice. He picks up the suit that’s lying on the chair and hangs it in the closet. There’s still a slight ache in his knees where he chased Sherlock and John across half of Camden in pursuit of a man who’d murdered his sister with an antique printing press. Not twenty anymore, getting far too old for that.

Walking into the bathroom, he avoids the mirror out of habit. If it wasn’t for the need to look at least somewhat presentable, he would have gotten rid of the damn thing. Nothing anyone wants to see there. Greg turns on the shower, listening to the pipes groan as the water slowly warms. He strips the shirt, stiffening as the sweat slowly dries into it, off of his shoulders and leaves it to puddle on the bathroom floor with his sleep trousers. 

The warm water feels like heaven and for a moment he leans his hands and forehead against the cool tile, enjoying it. The water strikes the exact spot between his shoulders where the clawing, grasping ball of anxiety has taken up residence. The tension eases somewhat, but stays stubbornly in place, for the most part. I could stand here all night and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference, just give me hypothermia after the water goes cold. Giving it up for a lost cause, he pushes himself off of the wall and dunks his head under the spray.

After quickly washing his hair with a two-in-one that smells like plastic and apples, he reaches for the shower gel. Normally, he would use the Tom Ford gel that Mycroft bought for him. Myc absolutely loves the smoky scent of tobacco, fresh coffee and warm vanilla the gel leaves behind on Greg’s skin. Just makes me crave café au lait and biscuits all day, but, god, is it worth it for that look. Every time Mycroft catches a whiff of the scent, drifting up from the collar of his coat or the underside of his shirt cuffs, his eyes go dark and warm and deep as an ocean undercurrent.

Today, though, he needs something a bit more steadying, a bit more familiar. He grabs the dark blue bottle of Sauvage instead. Popping open the cap and pouring a bit into his hand, Greg lets out a sigh as the scent of bergamot and sandalwood filter up into the steamy air. It’s the scent of days spent trailing a case across the city, of cup after empty cup of builders tea cluttering up his desk, of takeaway with his team, all of them laughing their way through sleep deprivation induced hysteria, of nights curled on the sofa too tired to do much more than toe off his shoes and switch on the telly. It’s the scent of warehouse meetings and first dinners.

Greg closes his eyes and let himself slip into memory, as he runs the lather over his skin. The tight knot of anxiety slowly dripping away as smell fills the shower stall. He brushes hands up both of his arms, fingers lightly tracing over various raises and rough patches. He almost laughs as he skims over the small bit of road rash on the outside of his right bicep. God, I was an idiot at sixteen. What was I thinking riding a motorcycle without proper kit? He skims his hands down his chest, spreading the lather. The bubbly laughter in his head dies and the anxiety knot reclasps itself with a vengeance. He can count every scar here with his eyes closed, even the ones covered over by others, and all of the memories are clawing over each other to get his attention. Knife, burn, broken bottle, baseball bat, ring, brass knuckles, knife, knife, knife.

Greg brings his attention back to his breathing, starting another round of four-two-four, until he feels steady enough to open his eyes. He can’t bring himself to look down, he knows what he’ll see. Violence has writ itself large on his skin. God knows I’ve helped it along. He washes the rest of his body perfunctorily, the Sauvage no longer as soothing as it once was, and rinses off before turning off the water. Shave later, he decides as he towels himself off. He can’t face the mirror right now, even fogged over as it is.

He makes his way back into the bedroom, dressing quickly in joggers and Motörhead t-shirt, beaten into softness by time and the washing machine. He turns away from his phone, sitting temptingly on the bedside table; ignoring the siren call of “call him, call him, call him” running rampant through his mind. I can call him at seven, no earlier. No reason he should have to deal with this, when I can cope just fine on my own.

Greg walks into the sitting room, slightly warmer now that the radiator has finally decided to cooperate, looking for something to occupy his mind. He places his sheets in the dryer and considers cleaning the flat, despite the fact that he just did that three days ago. Cleaning doesn’t hold much appeal and the only thing that could really be considered “dirty” is the fork he left in the sink from last night’s takeaway. He puts on the kettle and makes tea instead. 

One cup of tea later, mug and fork both washed and put away now, Greg is at a loss for what to do. He doesn’t want to clean, but lying back down in a sheetless bed and praying for sleep to come is a useless endeavor. Normally, he would put on some music to cut through the noise in his head, the low current buzzing under his skin, but he somehow doubts his neighbors would appreciate Lemmy or Strummer or Johnson at five till four in the morning. He runs a hand through his still slightly damp hair, before sinking into his sofa and turning on the TV. Black Books is always good for zoning out to.

…….

After spending three episodes staring at the telly, not really paying attention to Dylan Moran trying to run a bookshop, the warm smell of currant, cinnamon, and yeasty bread floats up through his floorboards from the bakery below his flat. Despite the way his stomach grumbles at the smell, even the temptation of Chelsea buns does nothing for his appetite. Greg gets up and sets the kettle to reboil, before searching his cupboard for a protein bar. Have to eat something, even if I don’t feel like. Last thing I need is to pass out at work, because I’m too stupid to feed myself.

He washes down the protein bar, tasting of cardboard and nothingness, with a bitter cuppa. He lays out a couple more bars on the counter to take into work with him. May taste like shit, but they’re easy to stomach, and I can eat them on the go. I’ll get a sandwich from the canteen at lunch, hopefully I’ll actually be able to eat it. If not, least I won’t starve.

He gazes at the clock on the kitchen wall, 5:30. Mycroft will be up by now, he’s an early riser. He’s likely getting ready to head to the gym. Could catch him before he leaves, if I call now. Greg drums his fingers on the kitchen countertop, taking a sip of his tea. It wouldn’t be weird for me to call this early, just a nice surprise.

Decision made, he goes to the bedroom and picks up his phone. He does a quick round of four-two-four, before selecting Myc’s name in the contacts, just to make sure no anxiety will come through in his voice. Don’t want to worry him, it was just a stupid nightmare. He rings out and waits for Myc to answer. Nothing’s wrong if he doesn’t, probably just didn’t catch him before he left for the gym. After three rings, the connection opens.

“Good morning, lovely,” Mycroft murmurs, his voice still thick with sleep.

“Hey,” he says, softly and smiling, “didn’t mean to wake you.”

“Didn’t wake me at all,” Mycroft replies. The rustle of sheets as Myc resettles himself, gives away the lie. “Always good to hear your voice. Miss you.”

“Miss you too, love,” he murmurs, feeling the anxiety sloughing off of him like ashy snow, at the sound of Myc so warm and cosy. He can imagine it, Myc tucked up in a huge bed, sheets as soft as silk, thick duvet pulled up around his neck, bright red hair a mess of curls on the pillowcase. He would give anything to slip in beside him, pull Myc into his arms, kissing him softly, before drifting back off into sleep together. Just the two of them, warm and cosy and safe together. “Go back to sleep now. Just wanted to say good morning.”

“Mmm,” Myc hums. “Be back late this evening. Come around to mine? We can cuddle.”

God, yes. Absolutely. A night in with Myc is exactly what he needs today. It’s heaven for the taking, offered up on a silver platter, just for him. “Sounds perfect. Give me a shout when you get in and I’ll pick up takeaway from that Italian you like.”

“I look forward to it,” Mycroft yawns. “Have a pleasant day, Gregory.”

“You too, love,” he says softly, before disconnecting the call.

Feeling lighter, even with the exhaustion weighing on him, Greg decides to go ahead and get ready for the day. If I leave a bit early, I can pick up pastries to help everyone through the mounds of paperwork from last night. Also might stand half a chance at getting Sherlock to come fill out a statement, if I catch John before he goes into the surgery.

The mirror in the bathroom never bothers him as much after chatting with Mycroft. He likes me just as I am, scars and gray hair and all. God knows why, gorgeous bloke like him. He quickly brushes his teeth, shaves the scruff off his face, and combs his hair, before turning his attention to cologne. He doesn’t have a large collection, but it’s grown since taking up with Mycroft. Greg smiles to himself. He likes spoiling me. Wants me to look good, smell good, feel good.

Gentlemen Only Absolute is a bit more of a date night fragrance, maybe wear that later. Don’t feel like craving biscuits today, so no Tobacco Vanille. Sole di Positano is for summer. Greg pushes aside the bottle of Ombré Leather. Don’t know why I haven’t thrown that away yet, the one time I tried it on -  _ the heady scent of pure leather drifting up into his nose. He knows this scent like the back of his hand, like all of his scars, like the colors on his skin, like the smooth strong taste of nicotine, like adderall buzzing away, honing his focus to a fine point, like bruised knuckles, and the copper-iron taste of blood in his teeth; like heaven and hellfire and everything between _ .

Greg shakes his head, avoiding the mirror once more. He ignores the anxiety knot, slowly clawing its way up his back once again. He puts on some deodorant and spritzes on Sauvage, gritting his teeth against the suddenly vicious craving for a cigarette. He pulls a nicotine patch out of the box sitting on the counter and sticks it on his arm, slapping it hard a few times to abate the itchy tingle. Have to get off of these someday, they’re going to kill me.  _ Nah, not that lucky, mate _ .

…..

The good mood brought on by his short, sleepy conversation with Myc fades slowly on his way into work. By the time he arrives at the Yard, he’s given up shaking off his anxiety as a lost cause. He parks his car and carries the box of Chelsea buns into the building. His anxiety redoubles in the elevator, the tight knot between his shoulders sending a chill through his arms.

That itchy tingle that comes with being watched, with walking into an ambush, is crawling its way up his neck, making his hair stand on end.  _ Something’s wrong, turn around, scarper while you can.  _ Greg nearly jumps out of his skin when the elevator stops to allow entrance to a blonde woman from admin. He takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly. Stop being paranoid, it’s safe here, I’m jumping at ghosts.  _ Have it your way, then. _

Greg walks out of the elevator and into CID, smiling despite the knot clawing at him, screaming at him to get out, now. He runs into Sally Donavon on his way across the room to his office.

“Morning, Sal.”

“Morning, sir. What’s this, then,” she asks, gesturing at the box in his arms.

“Chelsea buns,” he says, passing her the box, itching with the need to have both hands free. “Little something to make everyone’s paperwork less miserable.”

Sally snorts, softly, “take more than Chelsea buns to do that, but it’s a good start. I’ll make sure everyone gets one.”

“Great, enjoy,” he says, angling himself towards his office. 

Need to go, need to get somewhere less open. His anxiety is even worse here than it was downstairs, which strikes him as strange. No matter what state the office is in, even when everyone is running ragged trying to get out the door, the space for his division gives him an odd feeling of comfort, belonging. Today, the whole room is ratcheting his paranoia up to an eleven. 

“Oh, sir,” Sally says, “there’s a DSU waiting in your office, says it’s about an old case.”

“Thanks, Sal,” he says, trying to calm his thinking enough, to be capable of talking with the Detective Superintendent, without making a fool of himself.

Greg strides towards his office, when he finally clocks what’s making his skin itch. It’s  _ that _ smell. Mandarin and lime cologne with just a hint of cypress underneath, combining with pine aftershave. He knows that smell, sat across tables and desks and benches from it for fifteen years of his life. His heart beats double time, cold sweat gathering at his back. Why is he here? What could he possibly want? 

Greg uses the pretense of straightening his collar to fiddle with the chain hidden under his shirt, letting the skin warm metal stead him. Here, now, safe. The sooner I find out what he wants, the sooner he’ll leave. He grasps the handle to his office door, pushing it open, without bothering to look at the man lounging the chair in front of his desk.

“What can I do for you, DSU Harper?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I would like to thank Jessieblackwood, Paia_Loves_Pie, OhGodYes_CptWatson, lyricalsoul, bookjunkiecat, Reynardinepotter, notjustmom, EventHorizon, HastaLux and all of my other lovely readers for their endless encouragement. This fic wouldn’t be happening if it weren’t for you, and you have my undying gratitude!
> 
> Continuing from the Beginning Notes: This is the lightest chapter of this fic. As the saying goes, “The deeper you go, the darker it gets.” So, if anything from this chapter, outside of my prose, has bothered you, please be aware that it is only going to get more intense from here. I will warn at the beginning of each chapter for anything I think might be a potential trigger, but I’m not going to go into expansive detail. Please read with care and know that I love you all!
> 
> PS. Come shout at me on Twitter! @Jacklyn_Bradley


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